


Now or Never

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crowley and Aziraphale didn't meet in Eden, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, The lowest stakes 'revolt against heaven/hell' story ever, but still neither of them really want to do their jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: He keeps an eye on the demon’s sleeping form, enough so that when he begins to stir he’s ready. He’s tensed and ready for action even though all the demon does at first is groan tiredly. If Aziraphale couldn’t still sense his aura he’d doubt that this was a demon at all… but then his eyes open.His eyes burn amber, thin slits through the center. Clearly not human. Clearly demonic. It makes Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat.“Where… are you an angel?” The demon’s voice is scratchy and weak. It looks like he’s trying to sneer but it falls flat. “Did youkidnapme?"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 15





	Now or Never

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to tag this as hurt/comfort but honestly this is just fluff without plot. after this year i WILL write about crowley taking a nap. thank you

When Aziraphale felt the strange sulphuric twinge of a new demon surfacing in town it made him groan aloud. It had barely been a fortnight since the last bugger had been trouncing around London and Aziraphale had no desire to receive another ‘concerned note’ from Gabriel about how well he’s keeping with his duties. He’s loath to do so, but he should put his book down. He should take off his spectacles without, under no circumstance, sighing in exasperation. He’s an angel. He has a holy job to do.

But… maybe after this one chapter.

One chapter turns into two, and maybe three or four. Who’s counting? It’s well past sunset when Aziraphale decides it’s been long enough and that he should get to that job before the demon up and kills someone already. In his experience that doesn’t seem to be what they’re about, but if one were to ask Gabriel…

He’s not, well, he’s not overly _fond_ of smiting. It makes his clothes smell of sulphur and the screams… it’s nothing to think about.

It’s clearly this demon’s first jaunt on Earth. They’re broadcasting their aura so broadly that Aziraphale can practically see it without trying. Even from this far away it feels haughty, but Aziraphale knows the ones who stretch themselves so far are all the more fragile. It’s a small comfort that he’ll be back in Soho with his books soon, at least.

The taxi driver raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale’s vague directions but doesn’t argue when he asks to be dropped off at a mostly empty street. Aziraphale tips him heavily, and then he’s on his way. The demon isn’t far now. Usually new demons are hard to track as they wander through town, getting the scope of the place, but this demon has barely moved. Even as Aziraphale approaches, close enough that any truly aware demon would be able to see him as an angel there’s nothing but silence and stillness.

It’s enough to drive Aziraphale to a halt. This must be a trap. Oh, how foolish of him to think it would be that easy! Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, frantic, hoping he didn’t just let another demon get the jump on him. But… there’s nothing. He backtracks, circles the block, waits for something to tip him off, but nothing changes. The demon is still hunched somewhere down the block, nearly motionless.

It’s getting quite late when Aziraphale finally pulls himself together enough to get a sightline on him. As he gets closer it’s apparent that the demon is… asleep. They’re asleep, crunched uncomfortably in one of the seats at the bus stop, shivering in the night air.

Again, Aziraphale hesitates. With the demon asleep it gives him the perfect opportunity to simply smite them and move on, but that feels unfair. What if this demon turns out to be as strong as his aura suggests? Aziraphale can scarcely imagine Gabriel’s lecture if Aziraphale lost a fight because he woke up a demon to have a fair fight.

“Hello,” Aziraphale calls out, still a fair few meters away. The figure on the bench doesn’t move even when Aziraphale repeats himself, louder. He creeps closer, keeping himself on his toes, entirely aware. It’s not too late for this to be a trick, after all…

“Rise, demon,” Aziraphale says, perhaps too loudly. He’s closer now, still well out of arms reach, but he’s drawing attention. A man walking his dog on the other side of the street raises his eyebrows at him and Aziraphale sheepishly shies away from his gaze before scurrying closer to the demon.

“Demon,” Aziraphale says in a stage whisper. He’s close enough to touch now, and when the demon doesn’t move he nudges their shoulder only to stumble back when they slump over to the side. Aziraphale just gapes.

Aziraphale jumps when someone says something from a little ways behind him. He whirls around to see a few young women, nodding at the demon quizzically.

“Is he ok?” One of the women repeats while Aziraphale reels at how he could be so unobservant.

“Um,” Aziraphale says.

“He doesn’t look well. I can call someone if you want,” the woman says, and Aziraphale shakes his head. Without thinking about it he hauls the demon up, throwing one arm around his shoulder. His skin is frightfully cold. It sends a shiver through Aziraphale.

“No, ah, you see,” Aziraphale says, “We’re just headed home, I do appreciate your offer, but we’ll just be headed on now, thank you….”

“Alright,” the woman says, a little unsure. Aziraphale tries on his winning smile as he drags the demon away.

His mind is racing as he half carries the demon down the block. At the very least he’s grateful the demon is so out of it he’s not attacking him. He just couldn’t leave a demon with a bunch of humans. And wiping the memories of four humans would certainly draw attention from Gabriel. As if he needs _another_ lecture….

But what is he doing kidnapping a demon? He reaches the end of the block and leans against it, hauling the demon up a little higher. Blessedly, when he looks both ways there are no humans about.

“You better be grateful for this,” Aziraphale mutters and snaps. A taxi turns the corner and stops dutifully at Aziraphale’s wave.

“Hello,” Aziraphale greets. “Yes, don’t mind him he’s, ah… a bit… tipsy, you see….”

Aziraphale spends the whole ride back to Soho in intense anticipation. He expects at any minute the demon will awaken and he will have to subdue him _and_ save the taxi driver without discorporating. When the bookshop doors come into view Aziraphale’s anxiety recedes, but only for the rising tide of worry to crest up within him. There must be something terribly wrong with this demon if he let such a prime opportunity for chaos to slide. Can demons get sick?

The taxi driver helps him drag the demon to the doors of the shop, and Aziraphale gives him a grateful smile. He gets a fifty pound note for his troubles and Aziraphale has an unconscious demon for his.

Aziraphale stumbles through the shop, busily cursing himself. He should just smite the damned thing. It’s what Gabriel wants him to do. He tosses the demon onto the couch and frowns down at the sad form he makes.

Aziraphale glances at the book he abandoned hours earlier, still on the side table where he left it. He doesn’t want to smite the demon inside the shop. It’ll make the whole building stink for weeks. When the demon wakes up they’ll take the fight outside and Aziraphale will finish him off. Besides, every minute the demon’s up here Hell won’t send another…

He keeps an eye on the demon’s sleeping form, enough so that when he begins to stir he’s ready. He’s tensed and ready for action even though all the demon does at first is groan tiredly. If Aziraphale couldn’t still sense his aura he’d doubt that this was a demon at all… but then his eyes open.

His eyes burn amber, thin slits through the center. Clearly not human. Clearly demonic. It makes Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat.

“Where… are you an angel?” The demon’s voice is scratchy and weak. It looks like he’s trying to sneer but it falls flat. “Did you kidnap me?”

Aziraphale harrumphs. “ _Kidnap_ is a strong word to use when you were asleep in the street.”

“I,” the demon starts but breaks off to cough dryly. One faintly trembling hand moves up to the hollow of his neck. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says. The fear in the demon’s eyes makes Aziraphale’s resolve waver. He was so convicted in smiting this demon but this doesn’t seem like a fair fight. He doubts the demon could even stand at the moment. “Wait a moment.”

He returns with glass of water that the demon stares at apprehensively for a long moment, not taking it. It takes Aziraphale an embarrassingly long moment to realize his suspicions are justified.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “No, no—it’s not, of course—here.” He puts the glass on the table next to the couch and sits at his desk a few feet away as if to prove he’s not up to anything. “It’s just water—normal water. You’re probably thirsty. Just—test it if you want to see—I promise, I would never—it’s most certainly not dangerous.”

The demon takes his time exploring the situation. He doesn’t dare look away from Aziraphale for a moment, and he keeps glancing at the bookshop door as if he’s planning an escape. His limbs are clearly not affording him that luxury, and it’s all he can manage to fumble his way to sitting in order to peer at the glass. With one careful fingertip he pokes the surface of the water, clearly anticipating pain and receiving none. Bewildered, he glances at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gives him a small smile, despite himself. “Go on,” he says. “I promise it’ll make you feel better.”

There’s a moment of slow deliberation, and then the demon takes the glass. At first he sips it hesitantly, but within moments he’s gulping down the rest as if he’s parched. Generally, celestial or occult beings don’t need to do things like drink water but this demon clearly does.

“Do you,” Aziraphale says slowly, considering every word. There’s something strange about this demon, Aziraphale’s sure of it. “Want more?”

“Are you doing this?” The demon hisses, trying to leverage himself up and falling back after he tries. “What are you doing to me, angel?”

“Nothing!” Aziraphale says, putting his hands up. “Perhaps you should consider—I think you’re— these dastardly human bodies, you know how they are—“

“I—I don’t,” the demon says, and deflates back onto the couch. He presses a hand to his face, as if he’s trying to ward away dizziness. “I don’t know how these human bodies are. It’s not like—ugh.”

Aziraphale considers the hunched line of him. He could be lying. He’s a demon, after all. “What are you doing on Earth?”

“Not by choice, mind you,” the demon hisses. “Essspecially when thisss isss what it’sss like.”

“It’s not, usually.” Aziraphale says. “You are a demon, aren’t you?”

The demon hisses. “Course,” he says, “What else would I be, an aardvark?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale huffs, flustered. He considers the demon’s lanky form for a moment before pulling a blanket off the chair and tossing it over him. “Whatever you are it seems you’re not well.”

“That’sss what I’ve been sssaying.” The demon’s scowling but his ferocity falls short when he stares dumbly at the blanket in his lap. Slowly, his hands curl into the soft fabric of it and just for a moment surprise passes his face. “What isss thisss sssupposssed to do?”

“I think—well, I think it is possible that you may have, well, you know, gotten a bit disconnected,” Aziraphale says, waving a hand flippantly.

“Disssconnected,” the demon says, dryly. He’s still staring at the blanket. His hands clench and unclench in the fabric rhythmically.

“Yes, well, there are certain human _preoccupations_ as it were. With all the drinking and the eating and sleeping and what have you—“

“Are you accusssing me of being _human_?” The expression on the demon’s face is bland. “Didn’t we just go over this?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Not as much accusing as surmising.” The demon sputters in outrage.

“That’s—that is ridiculousss, you—“ the demon is throwing the blanket off of him and trying to stumble off the couch with only limited success. He mostly ends up slumped onto the ground. “That’sss—that’s it, I was being patient but I’m out of here. I have work I should be doing.”

He snaps looking confident something is going to happen. Nothing does. The demon looks at his hand, betrayed.

Aziraphale tries not to look too smug. “Well, I, ah,” he tries to go help the demon up. “Don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.”

The demon clumsily brushes off Aziraphale’s helping hand. “What,” he pants, “In all the nine circles of Hell did you do to me?”

“Nothing, I swear,” Aziraphale says, smiling a bit ruefully. “I imagine you’re in need for a good meal by this point, though. You may be in this for the long run.”

The demon groans. “Satan willing I’ll be smote from this blighted place before that happens.”

The smile grows grim. “I promise I have something that’s better than that,” Aziraphale promises, and picks up the phone to make a call.

The demon had handled take out menus like Aziraphale had been brandishing ancient texts. The only passing glance he gives them is a scrutinizing, uncomprehending one before folding himself further into the blanket on the couch.

“Have you eaten before?” Aziraphale asks, curious at the demon’s steadfast apathy.

“Ergh, don’t give me that, Hell isn’t _that_ ignorant of Earth.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says, putting the menus away. “Heaven doesn’t really allow for the trivialities of Earth.” Immediately after it’s out of his mouth Aziraphale realizes how profoundly foolish it is to tell a demon about the workings of Heaven. A covert glance at the demon shows he’s barely even reacted, though.

“Makes sense. Temptation,” the demon says. “Doesn’t seem to have stopped you.”

“No,” Aziraphale says with a hint of a wry smile. “Enjoying the unappreciated things in life doesn’t stop me from doing my job.”

“So are you going to feed me and then douse me in holy water, or…” the demon grimaces when Aziraphale looks at him sharply. “Look, I’m just trying to figure out what exactly is going on here.”

“You’re… not well.”

The demon laughs. “Demon. Comes with the territory.”

“Rest assured I will not harm you while you are incapacitated this way,” Aziraphale says stiffly. The take out will still be quite a few minutes yet, but Aziraphale can’t quite handle sitting here through this conversation.

“That’s very… kind,” the demon settles on. Aziraphale can’t quite look at him.

“Angel,” Aziraphale says. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right,” the demon says slowly. It’s mighty kind of the demon not to comment on the falsehood of that, and Aziraphale goes to sit at the front to wait for the delivery.

Aziraphale busies himself arranging a table near the couch for the demon once the takeaway comes. The demon watches with distant curiosity, though he scrunches up his face when Aziraphale opens the Styrofoam containers.

“What is that?”

“Trout,” Aziraphale answers, pointing to one of the containers. “I figured you would enjoy the duck, though you’re welcome to try some of the trout.”

“The fish?” It looks like he’s struggling not to grimace. “What’s on it?”

Aziraphale pulls the top of the container further open. “The capers?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I knew!”

“It’s a seasoning of a kind, to make it taste better. Do you want to try?”

“Seasoning,” the demon says distantly. Aziraphale barely stops himself from asking what kinds of foods are served in Hell. He figures he doesn’t want to know.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, handing him a little Styrofoam cup. “Try this first and tell me what you think.”

Aziraphale misses the incredible carefulness the demon takes in removing the plastic top in his hunt to find utensils. By the time he makes it back the demon is already drinking from the little cup in cautious little sips.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. He supposes he can’t complain too much since the demon is eating with far less complaint than expected. “It’s more polite to eat it with a spoon.” He offers the demon one who merely takes it and puts it in his lap.

“Odd,” the demon announces. The dubious nature of Earth food apparently doesn’t stop the demon’s hunger, because he looks far from perturbed. “What is it?”

“Onion,” Aziraphale says, amused despite himself at the way the demon pauses from his ravenous slurping.

The demon peers into his cup. “Hm,” he says, but he takes the spoon and continues digging in without complaint.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asks, poking the trout with his plastic fork. It looks delicious as always, but he feels perilously distracted.

“Mm,” the demon says. “Hastur used to eat onions right from the ground. Smelly things.”

“Interesting,” Aziraphale says weakly.

“This is much better than that,” the demon announces.

“Good Heavens,” Aziraphale says but doesn’t quite miss the growing grin the demon hides behind the cup. The snickering, not so much.

The demon eats a little bit of everything that Aziraphale ordered, though he didn’t seem too inspired by it. He was surely hungry, his appetite revealing that much, but he didn’t show any of the enthusiasm that Aziraphale hoped for in his first properly cooked meal.

He summarily pronounced the trout fine, the duck good, and the soup nice. After Aziraphale commented on his use of four letter words the demon rolled his eyes and claimed there were a lot of four letter words including the word _rude_ or _arse_. Frankly Aziraphale thinks this demon is better than that, really, but he looks awfully proud of himself.

“Are you feeling better…?” Aziraphale pauses when he realizes he has nothing to call the demon. “Oh, good Heavens, I haven’t even asked your name.”

“I did say you kidnapped me,” the demon says. “Though you’ve been a very hospitable kidnapper.”

Aziraphale tries not to flush but he still feels his ears go pink anyway. “I didn’t—that’s not—“ Aziraphale huffs. “I hope you will permit me to rectify my oversight.”

“Crowley.” The demon makes an expression like a smile but his teeth are terrifyingly sharp. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You still haven’t introduced yourself.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blusters, stammering out his name. “Dear me, I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I.”

“It’s the best time I’ve ever been kidnapped by an angel, I’ll give you that,” Crowley says, his grin getting wider at Aziraphale’s predictable objections.

“I’m not—I do hope you know you’re welcome to go,” Aziraphale says to Crowley’s uncomprehending stare. “Any time you like.”

A demon’s laughs are a startling, sharp thing, Aziraphale’s found. “You’re letting me go?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says. He snaps away the takeaway containers but then he’s left with nothing to do with his hands but fiddle his thumbs. “With your powers, ah, on the fritz you can’t do much harm. If you’re feeling better there’s no sense in keeping you here.” _Or killing you_.

Omitted or not Crowley seems to understand him. There’s a mote of surprise in his face, but it passes so quickly Aziraphale doubts it was even there. “Whatever,” Crowley grumbles, flopping back onto the couch with a somewhat exaggerated _poff_. “It’s awfully comfy here. Gluttony, sloth, isn’t that inspiring sin?”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale says. He hasn’t quite taken his eyes off of Crowley, but his fingers itch to pick his book back up. They were just getting to the good part. “You know as well as I do that it’s the overindulgence of something that makes it sin, not the existence of it.”

“Sure,” Crowley drawls. “Never said I wasn’t going to overindulge.”

“What, you’re going to laze away in the den of the enemy?”

Crowley barks out another laugh. “If he continues to feed and lavish me then I’ll never leave.” Then he lets his eyes close as if to prove his point.

“Ugh,” Aziraphale says. Finding nothing else to do with his time or attention he picks up his book again. By the time he remembers he’s supposed to be watching over an enemy of his station Crowley’s fast asleep, the blanket now wrapped tightly against him.

Crowley shouldn’t wake until morning. In all matter of things this should give him plenty of time to catch up on his missed reading, but as the hours drag on he finds himself unable to concentrate, his attention invariably drifting towards the sleeping demon.

He keeps thinking: _I should smite him. He’s dangerous. But he’s being so nice. Of course he’s being nice, you’ve tended to him on hand and foot! Yet he is so unlike any other demons. He is mischievous but he doesn’t seem to have ill intent. I’m supposed to send him back to Hell. He could kill me at any time, powers or not!_

The thought that crashes through Aziraphale’s mind is: _Am I falling into his trap?_

Aziraphale has no idea. He’s certainly been the picture of helplessness since he’s appeared on Earth, warming to the creature comforts of the bookshop. It would be a perfect ploy on Aziraphale’s nature to move in for the kill. There were infinite chances the demon could’ve taken tonight but Aziraphale keeps wondering what Gabriel will say when he’s discorporated.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to kill him. He might be an employee of Hell but he’s yet to do anything nefarious. If anything he doesn’t seem to be enjoying this any more than Aziraphale has.

And if this demon just stayed here then Aziraphale would never have to worry about Hell again…

Soon Aziraphale convinces himself in and out of every possible plan. He’s halfway to wondering if he could convince Gabriel that he lost his powers when Crowley stirs awake.

“Oh!” Aziraphale startles when Crowley sleepily shifts on the couch. He had forgotten he was there. “You’re awake!”

“Mrrgh,” Crowley says.

“Right,” Aziraphale says as if Crowley had said something intelligible. “I am still an angel, and you’re still, well, a _demon_ so I should really ask you a few questions before I let you go.”

“Mmhh.”

“First of all, it’s imperative for me to know why you’re here. If you’re up to no good I can’t _possibly_ let you out of my sight!”

“Mm,” Crowley says, peering one baleful eye at Aziraphale. “’m a demon. Always up to no good.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Hardly always. There were no dastardly deeds done while you were napping.”

Crowley throws an arm over his eyes, but when Aziraphale keeps waiting expectantly for a response he groans. “’s a punishment, ok? Botched something up real bad, got sent down here as a ‘fuck you.’”

“Something bad enough that you got your powers taken away?”

Crowley snarls into the crook of his arm. “Evidently! Those gits downstairs don’t appreciate my input. Leave off it.”

“Okay, okay,” Aziraphale says, raising his hands in surrender. "You’re not here to cause trouble?”

“Nnh, can’t do. I’m drained dry,” Crowley waves a lazy hand, his face still hidden under his arm. He rolls over, tucking himself back in the blanket. “More interested in this sleeping thing anyway.”

Aziraphale lets him sleep and is left with nothing else to do but read his book.

Powers or not Crowley’s still an occult being that recovers remarkably fast. He now requires food, water and rest like any other human, but within days he’s poking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale swats at Crowley where he’s poking around in the books that Aziraphale had separated off as _invaluable_ and _priceless_. Crowley just smirks, making a show of tucking his hands behind his back. Lord knows he’s probably pocketed something.

“What’s so special about them?” He lifted a pair of sunglasses off of a tourist the other day, and he squints through the large lenses.

“They were written by authors who died long ago. The original printings are very valuable as not many of them exist.”

“Hm,” Crowley hums, turning that pointed grin onto Aziraphale. “Coveting a den of jealousy and greed, are we, angel?”

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale flushes despite himself.

“You make your business in a stock of diminishing supply. It’s not about the text if the important ones are the originals, so it’s a symbol of something rare that others can’t have.”

Aziraphale glowers at Crowley. “I—I suppose if you’re being rather crass about it. The books are cultural time capsules. It holds the memories and intent from the author themselves. It _should_ be valued.”

“Sure, angel,” he says, putting his hands up. “It’s all up to interpretation.”

And good Lord. What Heaven would say if they heard that.

“Oh, get out of here,” Aziraphale says, shooing him away. “Next you’ll be telling me temptation is for the good of their souls.”

“Exssactly,” Crowley grins, but he obediently ducks the throw pillow tossed at him.

When a missive from Hell arrives at the bookshop doorstep Aziraphale immediately thinks that his worst fears have been realized. He’s half a second away from whirling around and tearing into the demon but Crowley beats him to it.

“Fuck!” Crowley snatches the letter from Aziraphale’s hands faster than he can blink. “They’re able to _find me?”_

He looks up at Aziraphale with such genuine distress that he can’t help but console him. “I’m afraid so. Heaven’s always been able to track my movements.” Another Holy secret, said entirely without thinking. Aziraphale winces. “You should be safe in the shop, dear. It’s been warded for decades. It won’t stop them entirely, but you’ll have a warning.”

“Oh,” Crowley deflates. He looks at the letter clutched in his hands, crinkled from the grip of his fingers. He tucks it into his jacket. “Will you show me more of Earth? Surely there’s more here than soup, books and take out containers.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says slowly, feeling that letter burn in the back of his mind. He lets a smile pass over his face anyway. “Of course, there is _so much_ in store for you.”

Aziraphale’s never seen someone smile as bright as Crowley does when he gets into a car for the first time. Aziraphale might lose several years off his immortal lifespan in the wild ride that ensues, but he can’t help but smile back at him in the end.

“Gosh,” Crowley says once they’ve stopped. Aziraphale catches his breath while Crowley admires the interior with obvious adoration.

“I would use a stronger word than that, but yes,” Aziraphale manages, and Crowley turns that bright eyed smile onto him.

“I never knew Earth was so wonderful,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “This is what I mean about Hell wasting opportunities…”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “That’s a secret best kept to ourselves, perhaps.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Sure. They’ll never know what they’re missing.”

Aziraphale wants to trust Crowley. He does.

Since arriving on Earth the worst Crowley’s done are some childish pranks and the crime of driving Aziraphale entirely barmy. Without his powers any real trickery would take time and he’s hardly been absent enough for that. Whenever he goes missing Aziraphale invariably finds him either asleep or antagonizing his customers, neither of which he has a problem with.

Still, Aziraphale knows he’s writing missives to Hell. He doesn’t even need to snoop to know that. Once Crowley had peaked around modern civilization he’d begged and wheedled Aziraphale until he conceded and miracled a laptop for him. Aziraphale has not a clue of what he could be writing, but it doesn’t change the sinking feeling he gets whenever he catches him studying it, writing furiously.

Despite what Heaven thinks Aziraphale is no idiot. He _knows_ how foolish it is to be harboring an enemy, an enemy that is reporting to their head office no less. Every word Aziraphale says could be used as evidence against him in the face of a coup.

But when Aziraphale takes him to St. James he people watches with open, rapt fascination. He pronounces things like cars, mobiles or duck ponds “absolutely brilliant!” with the kind of guileless love that Aziraphale’s never seen any of his angelic coworkers pull off.

 _Oh,_ Aziraphale wants to trust him.

“You know,” Crowley starts when Aziraphale’s about to take his first bite of the absolutely scrumptious looking apple pie he bought. “I was the serpent. Ya know, _the_ serpent.”

Aziraphale pauses, fork hovering in the air. Crowley doesn’t even look at him, instead continuing to fiddle with the toothpick he acquired from somewhere. It’s been bitten to Hell by this point, a victim to his growing anxiety. Aziraphale’s fork drifts back to the plate.

“I… see,” Aziraphale says diplomatically.

“Figured I should mention it sooner or later, since, grh, yeah,” Crowley says. “You’re gonna find it out anyway so I might as well tell you. It wasn’t like—it wasn’t _all_ bad for the buggers. Without the apple business they would’ve never made cars or books or your bloody apple pie.” The wild gesticulation Crowley makes nearly unseats him with how precariously he’s sat.

“It’s—“

“Don’t want you thinking I didn’t like them. They’re brill as anything and right tough as nails, and where would they be if they were trapped in that little garden their whole existence anyway. Though I guess as an angel you’ll—“

“I gave my sword away,” Aziraphale blurts out. He feels his ears pink. Maybe he shouldn’t say it just in case someone’s listening, but it’s too late now. “War. Her sword was given to me by the Almighty and I gave it to the humans.”

Crowley breaks the toothpick by mistake, floundering around in an attempt to keep from entirely tipping his chair. “What?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale hisses. “You tried to tempt them with liberation and I tried to protect them with war. So maybe we both did things that are questionable.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He looks at Aziraphale with pure shocked delight. “Angel, I have a _great_ idea.”

“Nnyeah, listen, Hell has certain beliefs about Earth, alright? All wrong, but nevertheless,” Crowley shrugs uncomfortably. “Probably expected me to biff it within the first couple days, an’ probably would’ve if it weren’t for you.”

“What would that accomplish other than a wasted body?”

“Mmh, dunno,” Crowley says. “Would’ve hurt. Could make me keep trying until I completed my assignment.”

“That’s… cruel.”

“Hah! Hell, angel,” Crowley says.

“You…” Aziraphale looks uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat. “As much as I am enjoying your company, my dear, I really can’t allow you to do any temptations under my watch. Sword or no, I can’t _betray_ Heaven.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Crowley waves him off. “This isn’t about the assignment. Don’t even need to do any real blood and brimstone temptations. They just have to _believe_ I did. It’s about how you _spin_ it…”

It’s only a week or so of their arrangement before Crowley comes up to Aziraphale, a brilliant grin on his face.

“Angel, look,” he says and snaps. A stylish pair of sunglasses pops onto his face, replacing the nicked ones.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps. “Your powers!”

“I’m back online!” Crowley’s once pointed smile is slowly turning comfortable in familiarity. “They bought it entirely, hook line and sinker.”

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale says. “What a relief.”

“Drinks?” Crowley snaps again and then he has two wine glasses in his hands that obediently fill with a wonderful ruby wine. He offers one to Aziraphale.

“It’s awfully early for drinks…” Aziraphale says, a token protest.

“It’s celebratory, angel,” Crowley says, smiling as he pushes the glass into Aziraphale’s hand. “Now, tell me, better than the one from last night? I thought so…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is halfway inspired by  
> [BuggreAlleThis's work Shifting Heaven and Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070352/chapters/47533399) which is a wonderful masterpiece about angel!Crowley learning about Earth under Aziraphale's tutelage. Really, this fic is the _much, much_ lower stakes, low poly rendition. If you want real intrigue and the delightful twists and turns of a developed universe then Shifting Heaven and Earth is where you want to go
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> My tumblr is Unuora.


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